


The Devil's Tongue

by Arae



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Demon!Marcus - Freeform, ExoWriMo, In which Tomas is horny and a demon preys on it, M/M, Pining, Seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-23 22:32:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14942588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arae/pseuds/Arae
Summary: The memories and the shame Tomas tries to hide at the bottom of his mind like one would quickly tuck a rebellious strand of hair behind their ear are almost godsend for every twisted creature ascending from the world below. It offers them something to prey on and oh, as hungry as they are, they don’t hesitate a second.





	The Devil's Tongue

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos to the amazing cinelitchick for beta-reading my fic, I love you friend!  
> I might do a sequel with Marcus, so I can also work with the absolute beauty that would be demon!Tomas trying to corrupt Marcus.

When Tomas walks into the church, he immediately knows something isn’t quite right. 

For starters, the ceiling is too high. This church doesn’t have the stature nor the ambitions of a cathedral but still does give the impression of trying to lift souls to Heaven much like the latter. Or, he thinks, perhaps the high ceiling is only a distraction, something to make him believe he’ll reach the clouds while whatever put him in this place is actually trying to drag him to Hell. 

His theory of impending doom is reinforced by the sight he gets when looking to his side. The stained glass of the windows is far too bright. It looks like a caricature, a grotesque copy of the original, as seen through the eyes of someone trying to paint the scenery with the exaggerated memories of a Christian spirit in distress as the only reference material. 

As Tomas moves through the tight passage created by the pews, he realizes he’s wearing his clerical attire, and the collar feels tighter around his neck than it should; it almost feels like a threat. 

The current silence is to be expected in a place such as this, and the only noise is the cracking of the damaged tiles under his feet as he crosses the distance separating him from the center of the empty church. 

The smell of incense and candles soon reaches his nose, and he notices there are too many of them burning. It feels like its mocking; a cynical reminder of all the prayers that remain unanswered, that lose themselves somewhere along the way between the believer’s lips and God’s ear. 

When Tomas finally reaches the altar, the bells start to ring; the audible manifestation of the cries of a man in mourning, or the start of the long-awaited trial of Tomas’ heart. He doesn’t know. 

“You look like a lost lamb, _luv’_ ,” a familiar voice rises up from behind him; its echo suddenly grips Tomas’ heart and refuses to let go. “Isn’t that ironic, considering churches used to be your playground?”

As he turns around, Tomas half expects the voice to remain lost in the void created by this church, devoid of any carnal envelope. A voice which he will be doomed to follow until eventually waking up in sweats, like in every one of his recent nightmares. A voice close enough to whisper forbidden words into his ear, but always out of reach somehow. 

But instead of a ghost, he’s greeted by the sight of Marcus Keane sitting down in a pew, all flesh and bones, his right arm casually thrown over the back of it. He’s wearing something simple: a long-sleeved grey pullover, in addition to a black leather jacket -- exactly as Tomas remembers him. 

“No, no, _no_ , this isn’t possible –“

Shutting his eyes, Tomas immediately turns around again, away from what he can only describe as a ghost haunting his spirit, even in his dreams. It’s only been a few months since Marcus walked out of the motel room they shared on the island; out of Tomas’ life. Naturally, his dreams have been plagued with apparitions of his lost friend, but it never felt so real.

When he allows himself to face the pews again, like a man anxiously awaiting judgment, Marcus is gone; there’s nothing but emptiness.

Just as Tomas begins to wonder about the exact nature of his dream, he feels hands creeping up his forearms and coming from behind him, a hot breath against his ear, and a few spoken words that send a chill down his spine. 

“Did you think I would disappear if you closed your eyes?”

Marcus never acted like that in Tomas’ dreams. 

This is no dream. 

Something is indeed playing a trick on him, but it’s certainly not his mind. It’s something far more dangerous and twisted. 

“You already did it once.” He needs to keep his composure against the thing that is behind him, and the attempt is visibly not lost on Marcus. 

“Ouch. _Touché_.”

The creature wearing Marcus’ skin certainly seems to be amused by Tomas’ reaction and by his tenacity, despite being trapped in his own head with a spirit that crawled its way from the darkest corners of Hell directly into his mind. 

“This is not real.” 

“What gave it away?” It asks, and Tomas can hear its smirk as it speaks. “Was it the church? The candles? I’ll admit I got a little bit carried away with this. Or perhaps … perhaps it was me. Him. His touch, which you’ll never know again because he’s gone.”

Marcus’ hands are slowly moving up Tomas’ arms in a way that can only be defined as teasing. The demon is quite obviously taking its sweet time because inside Tomas’ mind, time is insignificant. 

“Unclean spirit –“

“He’s not coming back, you know. But I’m here.”

“I cast you out –“

“I’m in your head, Tomas. This is of no use and you know it.”

Just to prove his point, Marcus starts pressing himself fully against Tomas’ trembling flesh, and his body is unbelievably warm against his back. Tomas, who is faced with a physical impossibility to move, is condemned to endure this sweet torture. He shuts his eyes and clasps his hands together in prayer and, surprisingly, the demon allows it. 

“Espíritu de nuestro señor, E–Espíritu de nuestro creador Dios, Nuestro Padre, Hijo y Espíritu Santo,” the words fall from his lips faster than they’ve ever done before. “La Santísima Trinidad, Nuestra Virgen Inmaculad–da, arcángeles, ángeles y demás Santos del cielo, guíen su luz hacia mi–"

The demon seems completely unfazed by the words and he certainly doesn’t hide it. “That’s quite the army you’re trying to gather against me, sweetheart.”

“Expulsa de mi tod–todas las fuerzas del mal, aniquílalas, destrúyelas, para que yo pueda estar bien y hacer el bien–”

Tomas starts to find it harder to gather up his words when he feels Marcus’ hands slowly making their way down his forearms and to his joined hands until they’re covering them; yet another way to mock the act as well as Tomas’ faith, the last barrier between the demon and its target. How effective can his prayers be when the Devil’s hands are tightly wrapped around his own? 

“You can’t fight me; this is futile. Let me take care of you instead…”

The demon already crawled inside his mind, and all it found was a feast to prey on. A golden opportunity made up of Tomas’ resistantlust and repressed feelings. How could it refuse a banquet such as this, especially when handed on a silver plate?  

As Tomas remains petrified, Marcus’ hands start traveling more. His chest becomes a new area to explore, every single inch of it, and he’s soon struggling to do something as simple as breathing. The slowness of the touch isn’t to be mistaken for tenderness; it’s a spell. One he isn’t sure he can break on his own. 

And then, when Tomas thinks his torment can’t be worse – oh, _how wrong he is_ – he feels Marcus’ hot breath against his ear. 

"I wonder, Father, what would He say, if He could see you right now?” The use of his title is clearly meant to induce more humiliation to the words and it works -- the shame is a poison that makes his veins burn while it dances with his blood. “If He could see how you lean into my touch, how you secretly crave more. I'm inside your pretty head, darlin', and _these kinds of thoughts aren't gonna get you to the gates of Heaven_.”

One hand settles on his stomach while the other slowly moves up, and they’re unbelievably warm; too warm for the hands of a creature that lurks in the shadows, untouched by the sun’s glow. 

The fool thing behind him is laughing, and its laugh sends a chill down Tomas’ spine. The hand on his stomach skillfully slips under his shirt, and Tomas finally feels how warm Marcus’ hand is when it makes contact with the skin of his belly. 

“How does that feel, _Tomasito_?”

_Like the fires of Hell are going to consume me –_

Despite having an access to Tomas’ mind, Marcus seems to be getting impatient. His hands slow down and his fingers start digging into Tomas’ skin through his clothes. It’s a warning. _Be a good boy and answer me_. 

“I asked you a question.”

Tomas remains quiet, petrified and unable to move. He needs to resist, to break the spell, and yet ... and _yet..._

And yet his composure is entirely lost the moment he feels Marcus’ hands move away from his body. The pain coming from the loss is acuter than he ever thought it would be. 

A small uncontrolled whimper slips past his lips. “N-no, please –“

“Ah, he speaks,” Marcus grins, and the tip of something wet and warm brushes against his ear. “You know, if you want to be silenced, I’m sure I can find a much more creative way to do it.”

He doesn’t ask for more -- he can’t -- but he also can’t allow Marcus to leave. He let him flee once. This is one of the things that keeps him up at night, along with the touch he’s always forbidden himself to crave. 

“He left you, Tomas.”

Tomas can’t talk anymore; his throat was dried up by the demon’s hot breath and burning words. He can’t move; his feet are anchored to the ground by invisible roots coming straight from the dark world below. But he’s also too afraid to move; if he does, there’s no way to predict what will happen. Maybe Marcus will grab him back and let his hands wander even more, or perhaps -- just _perhaps_ \-- if Tomas moves, the feeling of Marcus’ body against his own will just disappear for good. He doesn’t know which option would be worse. 

“ _I_ won’t leave you.”

A small gasp leaves Tomas’ lips. 

_Don’t leave, please, not again, I don’t think I could take it –_

And Marcus laughs. 

“See, Tomas, this is the real tragedy here. You crave the touch of a ghost so much that you would be ready to accept the caresses of a creature that looks like the thing you’ve lost.”

Oh, those sweet words; tinted with a pinch of humiliation, just enough to make Tomas ashamed of his wants, but also weak in the knees. This thing gives him what he craves and then shames him for it. The more humiliated he feels, the more Tomas wants to feel Marcus’ touch on his body -- as if the object of his desires is his only source of salvation. The more he wants Marcus’ touch, the more Tomas is ashamed of craving something he can’t have; shouldn’t want. Will he get banished, too, for taking a bite from the forbidden fruit? The desperation he feels is enough for Tomas to think the risk is worth taking. 

It’s a vicious circle; a deep pit of desire and shame he has fallen into with his feet tied up together. 

Suddenly, when Tomas doesn’t expect it, he feels teeth gently biting down on his earlobe. Hard enough for him to feel a little bit of pain mixed with the shameful pleasure that runs through his entire body. 

“So? Should I just leave you here?” Marcus asks with his wicked tongue, and Tomas is already too far gone. It’s almost funny, how pathetic he must look; how vulnerable his lust made him, once again, how he failed his God and everyone around him, including himself. He was supposed to learn from his mistakes – that’s what they’re for – not fall into the arms of the first creature offering him the twisted affection of a ghost.

“No, please, _don’t leave–_ “

And then, just like that, as if the pleasure he was promised was just four words away, Marcus’ hands are back on his body, summoned by the sweet sound of Tomas’ defeat. Marcus’ left hand slips back under his shirt and settles on his belly, while the other one travels more north than it ever did. 

When Marcus starts taking his collar off and unbuttoning his shirt, Tomas lets it happen. It’s not long before the collar is taken away from his neck, and it feels like it falls with the slowness of a feather; it’s forgotten long before it even touches the ground.  

As it continues its journey, Marcus’ hand grazes Tomas’ collarbone before the fingers eventually wrap themselves around his throat with a surprising but dangerous gentleness.

“Isn’t lust a beautiful thing?” Marcus asks, and Tomas wonders how long it will take for him to let himself become completely corrupted by the poison on the demon’s tongue. “It supports all the other passions: cruelty, avarice, revenge. While love begins with an image, lust comes from a sensation.”

The hand on his throat squeezes lightly, just enough to give Tomas a taste of what it feels like to be entirely powerless and deprived of something as vital as air. Just a little harder and his air passage would be cut off. It’s a dangerous sensation, and Tomas thrives on it, wants Marcus to press harder, _just a little harder, take it away from me –_

“Lust is instinctive, universal, you can’t escape from it, no matter how hard you try. Even a man of God like you can’t fully suppress it. But you already knew that, Tomas, didn’t you?”

Marcus’ touch and words bring back too many memories and shameful thoughts he tried to hide at the bottom of his mind like one would quickly tuck a rebellious strand of hair behind their ear. Things he’s felt, and things he wishes he could feel. Two people who Tomas tainted with his own lust. 

“Oh, but I’m not talking about her. You did penance, it’s part of the past now. No, I’m talking about him. You haven’t repented for that.” Marcus smirks against his earlobe, which is bearing the faint mark of the earliest bite. “Would you like to confess, Father?” 

Tomas would have shaken his head if it wasn’t for the hand around his throat and the silent threat of Marcus’ warmth being taken away from him.

“I can see every moment you’ve ever thought of him and felt shame for it. All the times you’ve longed for his touch and hated yourself for it; all the times you’ve touched yourself, brought yourself to completion late at night with your own hand, with the other cupped over your mouth so you wouldn’t wake him up.”

As the memories resurface, shame builds its way up Tomas’ throat again, which only offers the demon yet another shameful secret to prey on. 

“You can’t hide them from me, all the naughty, naughty little things your mind came up with,” Marcus says, and Tomas swallows, “And let me say, you have quite the creative mind.”

As he tries to focus on something other than Marcus’ words, Tomas realizes his mistake way too late. When he isn’t thinking about Marcus’ voice, he instinctively focuses on his touch. Marcus’ right hand leaves his throat to slip under the collar of his unbuttoned shirt, sliding over his collarbone with more skill than Tomas ever dared to imagine his friend to possess. 

“I know you’ve thought about his hands on you,” Marcus suddenly begins, and Tomas knows he’s in for another session of this sweet and slow torture; his traitorous heart pounds hard against his chest, singing prayers, begging for absolution, for protection. _Spirit of our God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, Most Holy Trinity, descend upon me, please purify me, mold me, fill me with yourself, and use me, banish all the forces of evil from me._ “These hands … they’re a work of art, aren’t they? Broken, marked by time, and yet so gentle when they touch you…”

Marcus’ hands are more insistent than before. They’re not pointlessly wandering over Tomas’ body anymore, as the demon teased its way through the darkest corners of his mind. Marcus’ touch has a real purpose now. And it’s all about submission. It’s always been about submission. 

“All the things these hands could do to you … and yet you’re still trying to resist. Think about it, Tomas, I could make you feel so good. I could give you what you’ve lost, what you’ve always craved…”

One of Marcus’ hands starts playing with the edge of Tomas’ pants until two fingers slip underneath it, brushing against the dark hair there. The effect on Tomas is immediate and his knees feel weak as he melts into Marcus’ touch. With a gasp, he instinctively spreads his legs just a bit and gently bucks his hips forward against Marcus’ palm, which seems to amuse the owner of the wandering hand. 

“Needy little thing, aren’t you?”

Warm lips are pressed against his neck; a reward, maybe, as the demon must know there is almost nothing Tomas craves more than the imaginative feeling of Marcus’ lips against his skin _. I could give it to you, this mouth, it could be all for you, worshipping you._ Marcus doesn’t say this, but the words lurk in the back of Tomas’ mind like a sword of Damocles swaying above his head, threatening to fall down at any moment and pierce his sad and bitter heart. 

And Tomas keeps falling deeper, breathing only for the man’s bewitching lies and the feeling of this hand between his legs, how it slowly goes down and down _and down –_

“I can make you feel so good, luv…” 

And then, just as Marcus’ fingers brush against the base of his hardening cock, the twisted creature abruptly removes his hand, leaving Tomas a panting mess; he didn’t even notice he was panting. His heart is racing and breathing becomes a task he doesn’t know how to perform anymore. 

Before Tomas can regain his composure, Marcus walks around and puts a hand on his chest as he starts backing him up against the altar. For the first time since Tomas stepped inside the church, he can get a good look at the demonic copy of his lost partner. Everything looks the exact same, from his too-short golden hair to the small scars on his face, and every little wrinkle Tomas spent way too much time observing whenever Marcus wasn’t looking. It’s a perfect copy – except for his eyes.

His eyes are those of a predator. 

They’re the farthest away from the kind eyes that used to look into Tomas’ own with fear, worry,  affection and – dare he says it? – love. 

This is the only thing they never get quite right.

Tomas is snapped out of his thoughts when he feels the hard surface of the altar against the bottom of his back. Then, there are two strong hands underneath his ass and the next thing he knows, he’s being lifted up to sit on the stone. His legs instinctively wrap around Marcus’ waist, seeking a contact he’s been starved for far too long. 

“Qué impaciente, Tomasito,” Marcus smirks as his hands descend to the bottom of Tomas’ back, right above his ass, lingering there. They touch and they tease, but they don’t go where Tomas desperately needs them. 

The torture is so intense, so unbearable Tomas hears the words slip past his lips before he can stop himself. He can’t do it anymore, can’t hold it back. The only thing he can think about is how much the fall will hurt. 

“Touch me…”

Marcus smirks. 

“You know, it’s a sin just to ask me that.”

Surprisingly, it doesn’t feel like the Inferno is opening its gates to welcome Tomas’ wandering soul with open arms. Instead, Marcus’ words almost feel like a deliverance, a relief; the humiliation never felt better than when it’s laced with Marcus’ voice and his blasphemous touch. 

“But you’re perfectly aware of that,” Marcus continues. “You’ve sinned before and you’re ready to sin again. I’m in your mind, I know that deep down, you want to be abused, Tomas. Like the good…”

A hand creeps up his thigh and Tomas realizes he’s never been harder in his life. 

“Catholic...” 

It’s a blasphemy. 

“Boy...”

He wants _more_. 

“You are.”

Everything is a blur around him, all he cares about is Marcus; one more touch, one more caress, one more kiss against his skin. Marcus’ hands are a pit of fire and Tomas thinks, _Let him burn me with his touch, I want to be burned, let him –_

Marcus suddenly tightens his grip and shoves his body harder against him, and the man’s obvious arousal is pressed against his own. Meanwhile, chapped lips find their way to his earlobe again. 

“To see you like that … it just makes me want to eat you up.”

His traitorous body reacts on its own before Tomas’ brain even register the words, and he feels Marcus’ crotch press harder against him as his own legs tighten around the man’s waist. He can’t help it.

When he allows himself to touch Marcus, it’s with a care he shouldn’t have considering the true nature of the man in front of him. But at the same time, it’s Marcus’ body. Marcus’ face. Marcus’ hands. It’s everything he’s ever wanted, delivered to him on a silver plate. But the food is poisonous and Tomas has never been so willing to accept the sweet poison on his tongue.

And as the ground seem to shake in silence underneath him, Tomas finally gives in. “Kiss me.”

Marcus laughs before wetting his lips, and it’s a painful reminder of the inhuman nature of the thing between his thighs. 

“Because in the end, that’s what you crave the most, isn’t it?” he mocks. “A simple kiss, yet so out of reach.”

These words lose their meaning when Marcus leans in until his lips are brushing against Tomas'. But a painfully small gap between them remains, and despite his best attempts, Tomas simply cannot move. He’s frozen and he instantly knows it’s not his own doing, but that a demonic force is to blame. 

As seconds pass, the situation begins to sink in; Tomas understands what this is all about. He’s not allowed to kiss Marcus quite yet. To get what he desires most, he needs to obey. 

Marcus starts withdrawing, and Tomas finds himself in control of his own body again. As his prize is being taken away from his burning lips, Tomas desperately tries to chase Marcus’ mouth, only to be stopped by a firm hand on his chest. A silent order he has no other choice than to follow. How could he not in such a state? He’s a mess: completely disheveled, his eyes half closed and his pupils darker with lust than they’ve ever been before.  

When Marcus puts him back on his feet, he doesn’t wait to spin Tomas around and bend him over the altar. There’s something hard pressed against his backside and he can’t help but think, this is it, _this is it, he’s going to take me right here, in the middle of God’s house_. 

But what scares Tomas the most isn’t to be defiled by a sacrilegious creature wearing the skin of the man he desires; what terrorizes him is the fact he’s not sure he would stop Marcus if he decided he wanted to ravish Tomas against this very altar.  

Thankfully for him, he doesn’t have to face the dilemma for too long, because Marcus suddenly takes a step backward, making all the warmth against his back evaporate; and Tomas is left mourning for the loss of Marcus, once again. 

Abandoned against the altar, panting like a man who spent too much time underwater and almost drowned, Tomas doesn’t have the strength to stand up; it’s like this creature has stolen his energy with its roaming hands and unholy lips. He can’t even think about the reason why the demon abruptly backed away, about the help coming from the outside of his mind. Mouse. 

Everything is starting to fade to black. He knows he’s going to wake up soon, in a bedroom devoid of furniture with only mattresses pushed up against the windows, and an innocent man tugging on his bonds and spitting blasphemous words with a possessed tongue. 

“Don’t think it’s over so soon.”

The demon isn’t fully letting him go; this isn’t mercy. It knows exactly what it’s doing, despite having run out of time. A seed has been planted into Tomas’ mind: something he might not be strong enough to get rid of on his own. An idea, a temptation that emanates from his darkest desires. 

And then Marcus’ voice rises up one last time, but Tomas knows that if he were to look behind him, he would find himself to be completely alone. 

“We’ll meet again, Father.”

The trial isn’t over; it’s been postponed. 

When he looks on the side, Tomas notices all the candles have been extinguished.

Above his head, the bells ring again. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell with me about our two sad priests on Twitter (@Riza1533) and Discord (Eva#1288)!


End file.
